“No.” Yes.
A Feeler transcribed our conversation over gridcast at the console in the center of the aperture, turning our conversation into a fragment that would surely serve to persecute Cassima. “I’ll need the names and titles of your contacts, Sarine,” said Adon.
“Of course,” I said, looking to the panoramic window of swirling nebulae for comfort.
The Feeler froze mid-transcription as an alert message invaded our cast. Its noise jarred me from my trance. We all looked toward the new fragment.
It was from Innovation. The message had been sent by Innovator Drandan-349, overseer of the Teleram Vector. It was clear that she was unaware of the situation, as all that was relayed was something had happened to Inspector Dracian-786 at their aperture, and to send someone from Authority or IQD immediately. Although the message hadn’t relayed as such, I was certain they had also called Inspection. Unless Inspection had caused the something to happen to him.
Shatterstar. If Cassima was gone, then I would be next; just as soon his sector dissected our feeds.
*
Adon and I arrived in Teleram outside the Innovation Vector, where a growing crowd of curious Framers formed. They could not see beyond the gate, but had certainly taken notice to Innovation’s unusual surge of visitors, all of higher tier and title. Two Inspectors and a Feeler moved through the gate as we approached, the crowd around us murmuring their conspiracies.
But no Framer ever strayed from their role longer than a few minutes before they were subconsciously edged back on task.
My eyes followed those who’d suddenly dispersed from the group; it was then when I realized Cassima had shown me who he was all along. His role meant nothing, because it wasn’t his. Dracian, the real Dracian, would have never been able to resist grid’s shove toward his assigned objective. He would have never taken me here, or to the Depository in Ash’kanir, if we were supposed to be hunting the Vel’Haru.
Qaira had said that we were nothing more than ‘flashy robots with super powers’ after I’d described the differences between high and mid-civvers of Alpha-Insipia. Obviously that’d been said in an attempt to incite, but he may have been right—and to think I only realized it now.
How many other Feelers knew what Cassima knew, but were silenced by excised code? We lived within their dream—but it wasn’t really their dream, was it?
Inside Innovation a group of architects and inspectors huddled around a console at the back of the vector, shadowed in columns of maintenance and relay facilities. An innovator—one I’d never seen before—was talking to the group. Beside him, stood Etann.
We locked eyes.
Etann gave me a lofty smile, quickly enough that once he looked away I wondered if it’d even happened at all. Every other Framer not directly relevant to the situation had been ushered out before Adon and I’d arrived. Dozens of titles flitted above the heads of unfamiliar faces, but I didn’t bother reading them, moving toward the console instead.
There was Dracian’s body, slumped against the vector wall across from the console. The voltage within his eyes had faded, now peering ahead lightlessly through films of murky white. He looked like a discarded toy, or a doll. So small, so frail. Dracian twitched from time-to-time, and he blinked irregularly, but it was clear he was no longer there. Just a non-sentient husk.
My limbs quivered and I leaned against the wall to minimize the sudden shift in my demeanor. Adon had moved to the side of the console, speaking quietly to an inspector. Etann was with a group of others. I was left alone with Dracian. But not for long.
A familiar face pushed through the crowd, and I straightened at the sight of her.
“Shatterstar,” Regan whispered, looking at the scraped-out carapace beside me. “I can’t believe it. Just like his Feeler.”
“Is there a way to retract his code?” I asked.
Regan shook her head. “There’s nothing in there. We’ve already run a diag on the carapace. He’s gone. It shouldn’t be possible, but he’s gone.”
No one could screen our relay feeds. I didn’t respond, and she took that to mean I was upset.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I don’t know how close you two were, but—”
“It was strictly business,” I said. Dracian’s choice of carapace hadn’t allowed for anything else. “Has your sector found anything more about the severed Feeler? It can’t be a coincidence that its handler shared the same fate.”
Regan shook her head, and then moved out of the way as two inspectors and an architect lifted Dracian’s body onto a commuter panel. I heard the one speaking to Adon say that they were sending the body for more diags and analyses in Architecture Five at the Reticulum. “This is starting to worry me, though. The last person the Framer came into contact with was Dracian. Now Dracian is severed. If whatever is happening has something to do with communicable methods, you and I are at risk.”
I let Regan think that, watching Dracian’s body disappear with the group surrounding the pane. “Will you keep me informed?” I asked.
“Yes, if you would me as well,” she promised, then returned to her own group of architects and scripters. The crowd was thinning now, and Adon was no longer occupied. I drifted to his side.
“I take it my investigation is off,” I said.
“It appears that way.” Adon hesitated, watching the last of the inspectors leave after bidding Etann farewell. “Did Dracian ever tell you more about his actual assignment?”
“No. All the information I received of it was from contacts.”
“I see,” said Adon, clearly not satisfied with that answer, but obedient enough to know that what was happening here was well outside his role to understand.
“Did you tell Inspection about Dracian’s role deviation?”
“Yes, what I knew of it. Understandably they didn’t seem that interested. I imagine they have a lot more on their plate than to investigate the deviations of a severed inspector.”
My eyes wandered to Etann. He was standing by the console, staring at me. “Are you leaving soon?” I asked to Adon.
“Yes.”
I nodded. “I’ll follow in a minute. I’d like to speak to the innovator on the scene. He and Dracian were friends, somewhat. Maybe I can glean some information about what happened.”
“Innovator Etann was one of your contacts, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you back at IQD, then,” said Adon. “You’re being reinstated as Head. The breach investigation is over. Authority will need all of your findings by the next recharge cycle.”
I bowed my head obligingly and Adon’s carapace vanished in a burst of fractal light.
Everyone was gone from the Innovation vector. Everyone but Etann and me. The other Innovator was around, but not anywhere near us. It was only a matter of time before the vector became open to the public once again. We’d have to make this brief.
Etann glanced toward the vector entrance as his cohort left Innovation—probably to tell the gallery that they were taking visitors again. Then, he approached me.
“How do you expect to get anything accomplished in that?” I asked.
He froze, raising his brows. “You know it’s me?”
“Of course I know it’s you. What happened to Etann?”
“He’s gone,” said Cassima, somber.
“So each carapace you steal kills the Framer it belonged to?”
“I didn’t want to; I tried to make him give me what I needed without transference.” He sounded scathed.
“You claim to want to free us, yet you’re willing to kill us on a whim. Your logic is counterintuitive.”
“Occasionally you have to do immoral things for the greater good,” said Cassima, and it was the first time I’d ever seen him scowl.
Our conversation paused as we both turned toward the sound of voices at the vector gate. Innovation had customers. “What now?” I asked.
“Invite me to your aperture later on. After the reg
eneration cycle. I’ll fill you in on everything, and we’ll discuss our next steps.”
“Next steps?”
“I need someone with access to the Reticulum,” he muttered, turning to leave as more Framers filtered in.
“But I don’t have access,” I said to his back.
“No,” he said, looking over his shoulder, “but scripters do. You know a scripter, don’t you?”
I didn’t respond, watching Cassima take his leave to masquerade as Innovator Etann-429 to the general public. A little while later I left Teleram, but did not return to Authority. I was emotionally exhausted and resigned to my aperture. Adon’s messages would have to wait.
For the many hours following, I battled with my conscience.
You were different than us, and you knew it. We were made logical, calculating, and sometimes cold. But you—you were soft and warm, always caring about the rest of us more than yourself.
Occasionally I would watch from a distance as you found something of beauty in our environment and paused to enjoy it. Each morning in the garden you would smile and close your eyes as a cloud of butterflies swarmed around your body, bidding you hello. I was jealous of your joy, and marveled at your appreciation for life.
You loved those butterflies. You loved those mornings.
You always wanted to do the right thing; be the light in the darkness slowly enveloping our world. We should have listened to you.
I’m sorry.
O
FLUX PERPETUA, II
(THE ORBITAL STATION)
????—;
WE ALWAYS HAD A HARD TIME adjusting to the shift of scenery at the orbital station, and our stints at the garden were growing shorter each season. I noticed the amount of time spent at Thasadem was inversely correlated to the level of desperation our makers and handlers felt. Their existential dread was palpable, now.
They were advanced enough to create us, advanced enough to lead spacefaring expeditions around both ours and neighboring systems, but not anywhere near the level necessary to face our next great filter.
And that was why we were here, orbiting Litha. We were the twelve Aphoric Engines, chosen from thousands of Anodes to ensure Novitiate continuance once the Sarra-4 galaxy smacked into our own and they were nothing more than star dust and background radiation. We were their form of permanence. Or so they hoped.
Here we were, adorned in headgear and wires connected to consoles that output our sipersem, our resonance, which would attempt to align and attune to the satellites orbiting their closest colonized worlds. On Litha, Anodes were designed to facilitate and maintain the energy flux in densely civilized locations. Like threads, we wove solar radiation into cells that powered Litha, and could even control the weather.
All of that was business as usual, but this would be our most challenging feat yet.
We stood behind our consoles, aligned in a circle like ritual totems. At the center was the analysis grid cast atop a transparent slab of conducive-silica, monitored by Karr, and a group of other nameless Nov-scientists. Some of us liked to watch our progress. Others chose to stare at the panoramic windows as our world drifted by.
Mia always did this. She sought comfort in it.
My comfort was watching her. We’d said less than ten sentences to each other since being recruited to Thasadem three seasons ago, but I was intrigued. Had I been more in touch with my Nov emotions, I’d have known that I was in love.
“All vitals are normal,” reported Karr. “Beginning synchronization sequence.”
Our resonances folded on each other. There was a brief moment of searing pain across my skin, but it was brief. My jaw set, yet I soldiered through.
“Number Two is peaking intensity,” announced a nameless scientist. “Designating him as the leader node.”
“Number Two, are you alright?” called Karr.
I was Number Two.
“Yes,” I said, although I wasn’t really certain. I’d never felt like this before. My reflection in the window pane revealed the sparks funneling through my eyes. I looked away, focusing on Mia. She had her head hung in concentration. Now that we were synched, I could feel her apprehension.
It’s alright, I thought at her. Relax and let it move through you.
Her head rose and she looked directly at me. Her body quivered and her eyes burst with electricity.
Then my mind left my body, riding on a vibrant silver and crimson thread, out through the cosmos.
“Satellite Veesa has been received,” announced Karr. There was applause, but it sounded distant. I was too busy spiraling through a cloud lightyears away. A torpor of threads had woven around a contraption of monolithic metal. I was getting nauseous.
“Number Four is faltering,” I heard someone announce. Kima.
“Number One is at her limit,” another said. Mia.
The others began to fall in succession, until the force was left on my shoulders alone. I could not hold it all, and I heard our handlers shout to stop the experiment. I could not return from the cloud. I could not—
Alarms.
Panic.
Darkness.
Hello, said something in that darkness. You feel sublime.
XIII
GOOD GRACES
Qaira Eltruan—;
MORITORIA LOOKED NOTHING LIKE IT HAD in the days of the Celestial Court. In its place loomed the ever-familiar metallic dome of the Plexus Research Institute that had once served to bond Nehelian and Angel civilians through mutual interests of science and technology. Now it served the same purpose for Demons and Angels. History had come full circle.
Cerasaraelia was still standing at the end of the cobblestone road, within the ruins of Adure. Seyestin and Belial had welcomed us to reside there while we got our shit together. They’d said to meet us at the Plexus after dusk, when it was closed for business to discuss the situation. Until then we settled back into our old place.
Being here again felt really strange. Purgatory was both a tragic and happy piece of my history; Leid’s as well. We’d exchanged vows here at the Temple of Maghir a thousand years ago when I’d still been the Regent of Sanctum, and then had lived in Adure as a memory-less husk and member of the Jury after that.
A twisty feeling in my stomach persisted as I unpacked in my old room—Alezair’s room—and did my best to ignore the damage on the walls and staircase from the scuffle with Calenus more than half a century ago. Our manor was still decorated with old plights. I didn’t know if being here was a good thing for my mental health, but insanity was still a better deal than having to live somewhere like Gantzt.
So fuck it; all aboard the crazy train.
Those of us not marred by Cerasaraelia’s history were quite impressed by it. Pariah marveled at our library, still stocked with books. Aela had gone out to the garden to admire the statues, and I could hear Zira complaining to Adrial and Leid about the absurdity of a stream running through the foyer.
I found Yahweh at the gazebo in the courtyard, smoking a malay cigarette. He stared out at the gray scenery, conflict and sadness etched across his face. He battled old demons here as well. Pun intended.
The cigarette, posture, uniform, sash around his damaged eye—I took all of it in, nostalgic of the boy he’d once been, when I’d tapped on the back of his chair and told him it was bed time. So far he’d come since then, but in which direction?
I squeezed Yahweh’s shoulder, and he only tilted his head in acknowledgement. “It looks the same,” he said.
“Yup.”
“I can’t imagine being here is easy for you,” he added.
“Nope, but we have more important things to focus on.”
“Agreed,” said Yahweh, taking another drag, squinting in thought. “I’m curious to see the Plexus now.”
“Hey!” Pariah called from the back door. “Come check out this wine cellar!”
Yahweh snorted and I only shook my head.
*
Command
ers Seyestin Trede and Belial Vakkar sat next to each other, heads of the executive table, within the biggest conference room on the top floor of the Plexus RI. Leid and Adrial sat in a similar manner at the opposite side, while the rest of us stood sentry behind them.
Seyestin’s eyes trailed over each of us, taking in the newer faces of our Court, before they paused on me. His jaw set and his posture straightened. I knew that smug look anywhere.
That fucker was still mean-mugging me. Wow.
“It’s good to see you all again,” said Belial, though his expression betrayed his words. “I can only imagine what flaming bag of excrement we’ve brought in from our doorstep, but what’s imminent death between good friends?” He grinned.
Seyestin rolled his eyes at his counterpart’s melodrama. “Adrial was kind enough to give us the preliminary information, although now I’d like to hear the whole story.”
Belial wagged a finger. “And none of that Vel’Haru secrecy bullocks, either. We have a right to know what kind of danger you’re putting our world in. Again.”
Leid and Adrial exchanged looks. He nodded, gesturing for her to take the reins. She hesitated, tapping her chin, floundering over where to begin. Then she asked, “Do you want the summary or the whole thing?”
“The whole thing, please,” said Seyestin.
So we were there for at least two hours.
*
“Here are your access badges,” said Seyestin, handing translucent cards to Pariah, Yahweh and myself. There were multicolor chips encased in them. “Use the door at the back dock only. I’ve had the executives section off the weapons research sector for your work. No one else can know you’re here.”
“Are you ashamed of us or something?” I asked, insulted.
Seyestin raised a brow. “Of course not. Do you want everyone knowing you’re here and the media showing up at Cerasaraelia’s grounds? This is a favor to you. Not to mention your presence alone sends the message that something is wrong. Stirring up the public is not my intent.”
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